


Foxfire

by RageKiss



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Flashbacks, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-04 06:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13358877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageKiss/pseuds/RageKiss
Summary: When Junkrat and Roadhog are brought into Overwatch's fold in order to stay out of prison, neither one expects that ghosts from their shared past will catch up with them.





	1. Watchpoint: Disappointment

In its heyday, Overwatch had enjoyed the luxury of operating a bevy of bases around the globe that suited the various divisions of its organization: astronavigation, climatology, and research and development projects that ran the gamut of the sciences. With Overwatch's reformation without approval from any of the members' home nations nor the United Nations itself, the need to maintain a low profile at one of the lesser known installations became necessary. It was decided, primarily between Jack Morrison and Ana Amari, that Watchpoint: Auckland would be Overwatch's new headquarters as Watchpoint: Gibraltar had been previously infiltrated by Talon's forces.

 

Located in the archipelago south of New Zealand’s coast, Watchpoint: Auckland served as a development facility for many of Overwatch’s experimental transport vehicles. Those who lived within its walls gave it the unfortunate nickname of “Watchpoint: Disappointment” due to its specific position on Disappointment Island within the Auckland archipelago.

 

Torbjörn Lindholm spent time within the base lending his expertise with armaments to the base’s engineers during the years it had been in operation. Besides Jack, he had been the only active strike force member to have set foot in the facility until they reopened its doors to make it habitable once again after the recall. It was a quiet place, save for the calls that echoed out from the colony of albatrosses that shared the island with them, but then the Australians came to roost with them, and it was enough to fray even the calmest of nerves.

 

Torbjörn pointed a wrench an inch away from Junkrat’s nose. "You listen to me, you weasle-y little punk: either you're going to follow safety procedures, or I'm going to toss you out on your ass!"

 

The smell of flame-retardant chemicals permeated the work bay after what was the third small fire in as many days, and Torbjörn had lost what little patience he had for the meddling kid who felt no apprehension with making himself at home in the coveted workspace. The current losses to Junkrat’s destructive tendencies included an office chair, two plastic containers of wiring, and a desk lamp.

 

Junkrat held up his hands defensively. "I already said I was sorry--"

 

As the wrench flung past his year ear, Junkrat stammered, knowing that Torbjörn was pissed but, thankfully, still in control enough to purposefully miss him.

 

"Sorry nothing! You're a walking fire hazard!" Torbjörn took a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Just get out of my sight before I ask Jack to ship you back to prison where you belong.”

 

The threat was enough to send Junkrat skulking out of the work bay without any protest. He did not fancy going back behind bars when he had just gotten out.

 

_Can’t blame the old codger for being miffed_ , Junkrat thought. _It’s his lab, and things do seem to go a bit kablooey when I’m around, but I just wanted to see how that lamp worked. Touch activation like that would be mighty handy, if I allow myself the pun._

Roadhog, meanwhile, meandered through the base. Both he and Junkrat had been given no specific instructions about what Overwatch wanted from them or why they brought them to an uninhabited spit of land covered in bird shit. The only things Roadhog had were warnings not to attempt to leave the island or damage any property. From three-hots-and-a-cot to a private room with an ocean view and all-access cable, he had to admit his situation had improved greatly from what it had been a few weeks prior. However, boredom was beginning to set in, and Roadhog had taken to wandering the empty halls just for something to do, and that activity provided the quiet solitude he craved whenever Junkrat scampered off to be a nuisance to someone else for a while.

 

_Finally, some fucking peace_.

 

As he turned a corner, wall-mounted display cabinet caught Roadhog’s eye, and he stopped mid-trudge. Behind the glass, photos and commemorative plaques hung neatly beneath the words “The Missing and the Fallen.” He saw Ana’s picture, recognizing her by the tattoo beneath her eye instantly, and it confused him as to why she would be marked amongst the dead.

 

_Bet it’s complicated_ , _but probably a hell of a story._

Just as Roadhog began to move along, another photograph urged his attention. So startled he was to see a familiar face that he lifted up his mask to get a better look, and staring out at him was a gangly slip of a girl with a too large grin and wide, whiskey-colored eyes. The caption read: “Missing in Action: Darlene Fox – ‘Foxfire.’” However, Roadhog knew her differently; he immediately recognized her as Junkrat’s mother.

 

_Definitely complicated._

 

\-----

 

_Twenty-five years ago..._

 

The Omnic Crisis and its after effects had cost Mako Rutledge everything. He had been a simple man with limited means, but he had loved his child and his farm with all his heart. The death of his daughter during the height of the Crisis’s violence shattered that heart, and the eviction notice and the insulting compensation for his farm as the Australian government made way for the construction of the Omnium took those broken pieces and ground them into dust. In Mako’s place was a man without a name, without a purpose except exacting revenge. He carried a hole in his chest where his heart had been, one that festered with a rot as dark as hot asphalt on the highway. He did not know how he would make the world pay for its transgressions against him, but he knew the solution would likely find him if he only looked hard enough.

 

In the dead of night, Mako set fire to his farm, not giving anyone the satisfaction of tearing it down, and he hopped on his motorcycle, the only possession he had left worth keeping, to travel to parts unknown. He drifted from town to town, scraping by on odd jobs and getting into one barroom fight after another. He punched through his rage, and he learned that making others hurt even a fraction of what he felt fed a craving he never knew he had. Steadily though, the craving became an addiction, and his travels became necessary to keep one step ahead of several outstanding warrants.

 

Though Mako’s faithful hog had served him well, it too failed him just as he approached Groat’s Gully, a town so small it had probably never been printed on any map in existence. The motorcycle’s engine sputtered to an angry death just as he reached the only paved road in the sleepy little gully.

 

Taking to foot, Mako pushed the bike along, hoping to see some sign of a garage. What he found instead was temptation in the form of a flickering marquee that hung crookedly above a seedy saloon door. “Nowhere,” it read, and that seemed as good as place as any for Mako to be in that moment.

 

Nowhere was a typical dive – the waning neon glow of aged beer signs, the smell of cigarette butts and rotting peanut shells, the clacking of billiard balls across a pool table, and the people with their sad, hang-dog expressions. The one thing that Mako had not expected to see was the young woman hunkered over a crane machine while desperately ignoring the drunken flirtations of a bar patron.

 

That, in and of itself was not so unusual for a bar of this calibre, but, when the claw had dropped the lady’s prize for what was likely the tenth time, she reared back to her full height, towering over the machine, and gave the would-be suitor a shove. She was as tall as she was skinny, wiry like a beanpole. She wore mechanic’s coveralls, unzipped to her waist, revealing her heavily pregnant belly and a bosom comparable to two deflated pears squeezed into a Bedazzled tube top.

 

“You see what you made me do? Piss off!” she shouted as the man hurried away to drown his sorrows at his table.

 

Her outburst temporarily drew attention away from Mako as he made his way toward her.

 

As she dug into a coin purse for more change, Mako sighed and then forced himself to tap her shoulder. “Excuse me.”

 

The woman’s reflexes were swift, and she caught his wrist before he could pull away. She turned to him with an angry sneer, but her expression wavered when she actually looked at him. Mako had seen this reaction before – the realization that, for all one’s bluster, there might be someone bigger and stronger just around the corner.

 

To her credit, the woman did not back down. She cocked her head to the side as if daring Mako to make a move. “You want a piece too, big boy? Like I told the last fella, piss off!”

 

“Are you a mechanic, or is the outfit for show?”

 

That gave her pause, and she answered with sudden suspicion. “Yeah, I’m the only grease monkey in town.”

 

Mako hooked a thumb toward the door. “M’bike’s busted. I need someone to take a look at it.”

 

Suddenly, the woman’s entire demeanor shifted. She quickly began patting his arm in an aggressively friendly manner as her face broke out in a grin. “Oh, why didn’t you say so! Here I am being me daggy self, and you’re just lookin’ for help!”

 

She took his hand and shook it, not waiting for him to offer it on his own. “The name’s Darla, Darla Fawkes.”

 

“Mako,” he responded when he realized that she was not letting go of his hand.

 

“Let me get you a drink for me being a crab.” Darla dragged him to a small table at the back of the bar, her slightly too-big saddle shoes clacking on the floor with each step.

 

She pulled out a chair for him before grabbing her own and turning it backwards with a flourish as she sat. “Whatcha havin’?”  
  
  
  
“Just water.”

 

“Same as me then? Though probably not for the same reasons!” Darla petted her distended belly proudly and laughed with an odd sort of giggle that could have easily been mistaken for the bray of some cloven farm animal.

 

As she motioned to the elderly bartender, who looked as though she had eaten an ashtray or twelve, for their drinks, another patron jeered, “Oi, Darla, what’re you talkin’ to him for? You can’t get double-pregnant.”

 

Darla’s face flushed at the comment, and Mako was not sure if it was from anger or embarrassment. He was, however, shocked when she suddenly wrapped her spindly arms around his neck in an awkward hug as she yelled back at the man, “I’ll have you know that this is the baker of my little oven-bun, and he’ll skin you alive if you say shite like that to me again!”

 

“Fuckin’ drongos,” Darla murmured and then took an agitated sip of water as soon as it was placed in front of her. Her shoulders hunkered, and she seemed all-the-more sheepish as she whispered to Mako, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

 

“I get it.”

 

In truth, Mako did understand, and there was something, whether it was his loneliness or Darla’s genuineness, that poked and prodded at the shrivel of empathy that lurked deep within himself. Let it not be said that there is not a sort of kinship amongst freaks and weirdos, the ones so off-putting in their oddity that even other misfits rejected them; it spurs a sixth sense to identify and to cling to others like oneself despite one’s better judgement.

 

 “You shouldn’t have to take that garbage from a bunch of drunks.”

 

Darla’s expression instantly switched from saddened to near-ecstatic. “I’ll drink to that, love!”

 

She held her glass toward Mako, and he begrudgingly clinked his to hers in a meager toast.

 

As they eventually headed out of the bar together, Darla chatted endlessly to him, though Mako had zoned out for most of it, letting her voice be a dull little hum.

 

  
(A Chance Encounter: Darla and Roadhog at the Nowhere. Art by Pigdemonart.tumblr.com)

As they approached his motorcycle, she smacked his arm playfully but hard enough to draw his attention back to reality. “That’s your bike? What a classic!”

 

Darla gently ran an appreciative hand over the yellow fender. “My mum used to have one like it. My sisters and I would cram into the sidecar, and she’d zoom us around town while she did errands. It was great fun.” She paused with a quizzical look before continuing, “Got thrown out onto the asphalt a couple of times though. We really should’ve been wearin’ helmets... And I’m having a sudden realization about why Paulie turned out like she did.”

 

Chuckling to herself, Darla led the way to her garage. The brick and mortar storefront sat at the back edge of town, which was not that far from the entrance into town as there was not a lot of town to begin with.

 

“Nice name.” Mako pointed to the hand-painted lettering on the window that read “Wreck’n’Roll.”

 

Darla unlocked the shop door and cracked it just enough to hit the release button to raise the garage rollers. “Ta! You’d be surprised how many people don’t appreciate a good pun.”

 

Following her into the garage and pushing his motorcycle along as he did, Mako observed, “You don’t belong here, do you?”

 

Darla only smiled, understanding his meaning. “No, but it’s home for now even if it’s one filled with creeps and bogans who spend more time sippin’ coldies with their mates than bein’ productive members of society.”

 

While Darla dug into her tool kit, she beckoned Mako to have a seat on a leather couch that seemed to be coated in an inch and a half of dust and was held together with duct tape and thumbtacks. She held up her diagnostic tool with a triumphant “ah-ha!” as Mako debated the likelihood of receiving a serious injury if he attempted to sit on the rickety sofa.

 

“The only thing fellas like that want to be ‘productive’ about is getting laid if they can. Bunch of tossers, the lot of them. Can’t they see I’m a walking beach ball? Beer goggles, mate; beer goggles are a dangerous thing... but I’m just rambling again.”

 

Darla straddled the bike and cranked its engine but received nary a rev in response. She then began checking over the rest of the motorcycle, testing wires with the handheld diagnostic tool. She appeared to have no issue with crouching down and getting into uncomfortable positions as she worked. Mako thought about offering her help, but he figured she was the type to ask for it if she needed it.

 

Finally gaining the courage to ease himself onto the couch, he asked, “Why’d you go to a place like that then?”

 

“Not much else to do, really. I just like the claw machine. Not a lot of toy stores in a place like this; gotta fulfill the need to nest somehow.” Darla gave her belly an affectionate rub. “Only the best for my boy.”

 

She turned to Mako and waved the diagnostic tool at him. “You don’t deserve a hog this good, mate. Your main fuse has had quite a scramble.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

Darla giggled at that, standing with more agility than Mako would have given her credit for. “You’re a funny guy and a lucky one to boot because I happen to have a replacement fuse or two that’ll work with this model. You’ll be on your way in no time.”

 

Mako watched her work for the next hour, and he got the feeling that she was taking her time, that she might have liked having convivial company for once. She chatted about the preparations she made for the baby’s impending arrival, and Mako found her enthusiasm suddenly less grating than before. He did not feel envious of someone else’s happiness for once; there was a flicker of gladness at her excitement.

 

“He’s going to have it all – the best parks, the best schools, everything! As soon as I’ve popped, me and the little ‘un are hitting the road, getting out of this olive pit. I’m going to head back to Sydney.” Darla peered up from installing the new fuse. “D’you have any kids?”

 

Knowing she was just making conversation and not trying to upset him, Mako nodded though only after a noticeable pause. “Yeah, one.”

 

“A daughter?” When he did not respond, Darla continued, “I could tell by your look. Dads with daughters always make that face. Don’t you worry, I’ll get this bike fixed up so you can get home to her and your missus.”

 

“Don’t have a wife.” Mako did not have a daughter anymore either; he was not sure why he bothered to make the distinction.

 

Darla smiled softly and sadly. In the dim and stuttery glow of the fluorescent shop lights, she almost looked pretty.

 

“I’m sure you’re doing fine, mate. I’ll be in the same boat soon – kid with no hubby. Got any pointers?”

 

“Don’t take it for granted. Cherish that kid with everything you got because you never know what’s coming tomorrow.” Roadhog was never one for sentimentality or oversharing his emotions, but it took more than he realized to contain himself to not simply unload his plight on a total stranger.

 

There was silence then.

 

“That’s good advice. You should consider a career in the greeting card industry.” She held back a sniffle and muttered about her hormones being all over before wiping her eye on the sleeve of her coveralls.  “But if my boy turns out spoiled rotten, I’m blaming you.”

 

Roadhog laughed; he had almost forgotten what it felt like. “You got a name picked out?”

 

“Jamison. Not for the booze, mind you! It’s a family name.” Darla looked rather proud of herself as she gave Mako a mock-salute with her screwdriver. “Jamison Fawkes has a noble ring to it, don’t you think?”


	2. Cell Block Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would have guessed the prison might have been the best thing to happen to two fugitive Junkers?

_Three months ago..._

 

“Fawkes! Rutledge!” The static-y bark of the prison yard’s speaker system crackled to life and beckoned.

 

Having time in the yard was vital for keeping one’s sanity while locked up. The fresh air and sunshine made the long hours under constant supervision worth the tedium. Roadhog and Junkrat developed a habit of camping out on a metal bench on the far end of the yard where they could relax as much as they could while continuing to keep watch on the rest of the prison population. Though Roadhog preferred to remain seated, Junkrat varied from pacing around the bench to staying at his companion’s side.

 

“What’d you do now?” Roadhog sighed after the intercom signaled them to move to the guard post that led back into the prison proper, annoyance radiating off his body enough to put Junkrat immediately on the defensive.

 

“Ain’t done nothing, you sorry sausage!” came the counter. “How do I know you didn’t pilfer the warden’s pudding cups or something. Pfft, always blamin’ me.”

 

The banter was nice, a reminder that they had each other even in a wretched, barbed wire-covered box. Roadhog pushed himself to his feet with some difficulty, his breath hitching slightly as he put pressure on his knees. He put his arm around Junkrat nonchalantly, appearing possessive to hide his need for support. They approached the security gate slowly with Roadhog taking his time while Junkrat’s fingers firmly hooked around the loops around his former bodyguard’s jumpsuit meant for cuff chains.

 

While Junkrat fancied himself to be a keen strategist, he never failed to forget a Plan B in case a scheme went tits up, even though that was often. He never imagined what it would be like to go to prison. In Junkertown, a bullet to the brain served as judge, jury, and sentence unless someone wanted to take vengeance out of another’s flesh slowly, piece by piece, for whatever wrong had been done. Prison lacked chaos; it was control, order, and cleanliness, none of which were things that Junkrat particularly liked.

 

_Wasn’t supposed to be this. Should’ve been simple: an ingenious globe-trottin’ crime spree followed by blowin’ up Queenie and livin’ like kings in her place. Hoggie was right; we should have just kept the money and buggered off to some remote corner with our ill-gotten gains. Hindsight and all that._

 

When they had been refused entry into Junkertown after successfully turning themselves into fugitives, Junkrat found himself bereft of ideas for the first time since he realized he did not know how to market the treasure he scrapped from the Omnium. Sitting on that figurative gold mine made him feel insignificant until Roadhog came along, huffing into the Wolf’s Woods at just the right moment to save the day, like a rotund knight in shining armor.

 

_Shining stabby hook, at least._

When the plan for revenge failed, the pair tried to find “legitimate work” as guns-for-hire, making it all the way to Syndey even with an international manhunt on their tails. Every step along the way, Roadhog just accepted whatever scheme crept into Junkrat’s tangled cogworks of a brain. With an exasperated sign or a not-too-gentle knock to Junkrat’s head, Roadhog could coax a decision one way or another, but he left the final say to his compatriot.

 

_Big ol’ softie had me convinced, dead to rights, that it was just for the dosh, but he likes me. Brings a tear to me eye._

 

After a year in each other’s company, they fell into routines, and initial standoffishness melted away into comradery. When authorities finally cornered them, the pair gave themselves up together, a silent agreement made during lonely nights in musty hotel rooms and across open highways: If they both could not make an escape, then neither would.

 

The day the prison bars closed behind them the guards took Junkrat’s prosthetic arm but left him his peg-leg. It was one of the worst feelings he had experienced in a great number of years, one of the few times he felt true regret for the things he had done.

 

_Suppose they think I’d grateful for a modicum of mobility. Fat bloody chance._

 

In truth, the only thing that gave Junkrat relief was that, after the first week, the guards moved him into a cell with Roadhog after Junkrat busted the nose of his first cellmate, head-butting him viciously when the other man tried to push him around. The second cellmate was not as fortunate.

 

 _He shouldn’t've shoved his finger in me face like that, actin’ like I had to follow_ his _rules._ Junkrat smirked to himself at the memory. _I only bit down to the first knuckle; he’s lucky I didn’t take off the whole bloomin’ thing._

Roadhog, however, had immediately been placed in a cell by himself upon arrival. He was uncertain if that was due to his physical size or because other inmates would have rather faced solitary confinement in fear of him. It mattered little as Roadhog appreciated being left alone; no one had to see how he struggled to breathe without his mask. He refused to tell the guards or make any attempt to get to the infirmary, despite Junkrat’s prodding.

 

Right after their reunion, Junkrat slept wedged against the corner post of Roadhog’s bunk; at light’s out, Junkrat would draw his knees to his chest and lean his head against the cold, concrete wall, preferring it to laying prone in his own bunk. Roadhog watched him sleep on those nights, marveling at the huddled form with a paper-thin blanket clutched around his shoudlers.

 

 _Rat’s just a kid still, can’t blame him for being scared_ , Roadhog thought, knowing that he had girth and intimidation on his side when it came to the other prisoners and the guards, but Junkrat was a spindly scarecrow, missing half his limbs; he would have been easy prey without someone to protect him.

  
  
(Making the Most: Roadie and Junkrat behind Bars. Art by Coldstonedjones.tumblr.com)

   


“When we’re out in the yard or the canteen, you hold onto my belt loop. Got it?” Roadhag had instucted after Junkrat returned from the showers one day, nursing a black eye.

 

“Why? What good’s that going to do?” Junkrat kept poking at the bruised skin until Roadhog grabbed his wrist to stop him.

 

Taking Junkrat to the small sink in their cell, Roadhog held a washcloth beneath the tap before bringing the damp material to Junkrat’s face. “It’s a signal. They’ll think you’re my property, and they won’t fuck with you.”

 

“Property?” The squeaky hamster wheel in Junkrat’s head turned just enough for him to finally get Roadhog’s meaning. “No, that’s too embarrassin’, even for me!”

 

“There’s no dignity in a place like this. Just do what I say.”

 

Junkrat did as he was told for once, and he noticed that the other inmates gave him wider berth. He still could not let his guard down nor did he feel safe, but it was better than nothing.

 

It was shortly after that incident that Roadhog woke one night to find that Junkrat had squeezed into the space between the wall and his body. Junkrat’s nimble fingers were tucked into the neck of Roadhog’s shirt, holding on as he often did with any blankets or pillows he had. Roadhog sighed and let him be, taking an indulgent moment to brush his hand over some of the messy blond hair that splayed over his bicep.

 

 _Simpatico_ , Roadhog mused every morning as he knotted the empty sleeve of Junkrat’s orange jumpsuit. _I think that’s a good word for what we are._

 

Roadhog served as extra dexterity for Junkrat while the younger man could be a crutch when Roadhog struggled for breath. This was more than friendship; they needed one another.

 

After months incarcerated, the pair stood at the security gate after being summoned by the faceless voice over the intercom. Guards patted them down, cuffed them, and led them down deep into the bowels of the prison. Junkrat tensed as he recognized the location they were being taken to, remembering being interrogated in this place and taking a nasty punch to the temple after frustrating some prison suit one too many times.

 

 _S’not my fault I can’t remember me birthday. Should’ve just made something up. Give them something to write on their stupid little forms_.

 

Roadhog too had no fondness for these rooms, recalling how he strained to control his temper as folders filled with misdeeds from his younger years were thrown in his face. He had lunged at the interviewer who tried to bring up what had transpired with the Australian Liberation Front and paid the price for it.

 

 _Taser to the throat is no one’s idea of a good time._  

 

The hallway of tunnels ended at a single door. When it opened, the guards shoved the pair inside and did not follow. The door shut again with an ominous _click_. Across from the entryway, a man, his face partially obscured by thick-framed, red-lensed sunglasses, and a younger woman with a pleasant expression sat at the metal interrogation table.

 

The woman stood and motioned to the empty chairs opposite them. “Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

 

“Oh, Hoggie, you hear that? We’re gentlemen now; how we’ve moved up in the world since gettin’ thrown in the clink!” Junkrat, despite his snark, slumped into a chair, sprawling his legs open in a shallow attempt to show defiance even though he was clearly complying with the woman’s request.

 

_Ain’t no such thing as an offer when you’re cuffed; act ‘a sweetie all you like, but it’s still a demand._

 

Roadhog, however, refused and stood with his back to one of the walls. It was as non-threatening as a threat could be. His eyes narrowed as he took stock of the strangers.

 

 _Not guards, not suits._ Roadhog noted the crispness of the woman’s white button-down, her blond hair swept into an trying-to-be-casual-yet-overly-bobby-pinned bun, and her Ready-for-Prime-Time smile. _Press, maybe?_

The older man shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze a mystery behind his glasses. The movement caused the sleeve of his worn leather jacket to slide up his arm, revealing part of his wrist, and Roadhog caught sight of heavy scarring and the cuff of some type of tactical gear, like the holster for a concealed knife.

 

_Not press._

The woman opened a leather satchel and pulled out a file folder.

 

“I apologize for the unannounced visit, so we will keep this brief.” She made eye contact with both Junkrat and Roadhog with all the calmness of an experienced dignitary. “As I know you, but you don’t know me, let me begin. My name is Dr. Angela Ziegler.”

Junkrat glanced back at Roadhog, trying to discern his reaction to temper his own responses. Upon being unable to get a read, he went with his standard sarcasm. “Word of warnin', love: the last doc in here gave me ‘n Hog cavity searches, and let’s just say that no one came out a winner there.”

 

“Charming.” Completely nonplussed, Dr. Ziegler continued though she made no effort to introduce her companion, whose mouth seemed permanently set into a grim line. “I wish to offer you the chance to walk away from here as free men.”

 

Junkrat perked up as Dr. Ziegler placed a document from the file on the table. However, before she could slide it across to him, the silent man’s hand landed on top of it sharply.

 

His voice was like dry gravel as he leaned forward, and Junkrat recognized the timbre as the same as Junkers he had encountered who had survived serious smoke inhalation, the kind that seared trachea and lungs. “Nothing about this is a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. It’s not parole; it’s not probation; this is an exchange.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, there’s always a catch, ain’t there?” Junkrat huffed impatiently with a few rolls of his wrist. “Let the lady finish.”

 

When her companion relinquished his hold on the document, Dr. Ziegler pushed it to Junkrat. He glanced at the page and turned once more to Roadhog, who was doing his best to read what he could from his position.

 

“Join Overwatch, use your talents help defend those who need it.” The word “talents” rolled off Dr. Ziegler’s tongue like a bad taste she wished to spit out.

 

Junkrat laughed, a mocking, tittering sound. “You don’t trust us to play superhero.”

 

“To be frank, I would not trust you with a houseplant, but you have skills that could prove useful to us.”

 

“I get it. It’s a scratch your back and you’ll scratch mine backroom dealie, a little tit-a-tit.”

 

Dr. Ziegler raised a sculpted eyebrow, and Roadhog broke his silence to reduce the awkwardness. “He means ‘tête-à-tête.’”

 

Junkrat toyed with the document with its official letterhead and legal-sounding lingo, moving it around in front of him for a moment, trying his best to give the illusion of consideration when he had made up his mind the moment Dr. Ziegler had mentioned that he and Roadhog might have the chance to leave prison life behind.

 

“I think we’re ready to reform our bad ol’ ways. You’ve touched me deep, Doc.” Junkrat feigned sincerity and would have likely put his hand to his heart were he not cuffed. “Though not as deep as the last one.”

 

Junkrat glanced over his shoulder. “What about you, Roadie? Are you ready to set out on a path of redemption and help the helpless?”

 

Roadhog gave a curt nod of approval, and Junkrat grinned; they were a package deal after all. “Well, there you have it. We’re in.”

 

“Excellent, you’ll be released into our custody within the hour.” Dr. Ziegler signaled one of the security cameras for the guards to return. “We’ll have your clothes and personal effects brought to you as well.” She nudged the gruff man at her side, who seemed even more irritated than before despite his collected exterior. “Jack?”

 

The man, Jack, stood and straightened his jacket, staring down at Junkrat. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

 

That only made Junkrat giggle again. “Do you only have the one? I can’t tell ‘neath those sunnies.”

 

\-----

 

_Present Day..._

 

Roadhog heard footsteps behind him – soft yet sure, not Junkrat’s stilted gait. He turned to see Captain Amari observing him. Her eye belied more concern than the rest of her face.

 

Pointing to the photograph of Junkrat’s mother, Roadhog asked, “Is this the real reason we’re here?”

 

Ana appeared to consider her answer carefully before nodding. “Come, have a cup of tea with me.”


	3. Avoidance and Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog and Ana have an overdue conversation, and Junkrat has to confront some unpleasant memories.

The kitchenette of Watchpoint: Disappointment was claustrophobic with its stainless-steel appliances and countless cabinets shoved into a tiny corner of the base. The sickly houseplants meant to make the place look more hospitable only served to further the feeling of being cramped into a sanitized sardine can. Roadhog rolled his shoulders as he sat at the circular table at the room’s center. From what he had observed, most of the team members chose to take their meals privately, squirreling food away to their rooms, except for Ana. She did not cajole or waste words; she simply was a pleasant presence without putting on airs. She observed without judgement and without deceptive platitudes, and Roadhog appreciated that kind of honesty.

 _She’s probably seen it all, and a couple of Junkers don’t scare her_ , he thought as she excused herself after putting the kettle on the stovetop.

While the tea brewed, the scent of cinnamon permeated the air, and soon Ana returned with a stack of dossiers held together with a decaying rubber band. One loose folder sat on top, its newness evidenced by its brightness in comparison to the darkened manila of the other files.

Ana sat opposite Roadhog as she unbound the rubber band from the stack and then opened two folders next to one another. The newer folder contained a stack of papers with Junkrat’s mugshot paper-clipped to its edge. The photo Junkrat had taken for his security badge for the base stuck out from beneath the much less flattering mugshot. The older folder held Darla’s photograph, likely from her own security badge, secured to the pages within. 

In the intervening years after first meeting her, Roadhog had returned to Darla’s place in Groat’s Gully a few times, not always under the best circumstances. The last time he had seen Junkrat with his mother was when the lad was around five years old. Though the similarity had always struck Roadhog in their appearances in his own hazy recollections, made worse by radiation and years of purposeful forgetfulness, seeing the photos side-by-side made the resemblance crystal clear and creepily uncanny.

“Did you know her?” Ana carefully removed the paperclip from Darla’s photo and held it out to Roadhog.

Taking the faded picture between his massive fingers, he nodded. “For a little while.”

“Is that why you’re protecting the boy?”

Ana spoke with a soft voice as though she were speaking of an actual child. Roadhog could not fault her for it as he was guilty of doing the same at times.

“No, only a series of coincidences. Met Rat’s mom long ago, didn’t make the connection until well after he’d hired me to play bodyguard.” It was probably the most Roadhog had spoken to anyone on the base, and he was not sure how he felt about it.

“Are you sure?” There was no direct accusation in Ana’s tone, but she made it clear she wanted truthful answers. “Is there any possibility you’re his father?”

Roadhog laughed, almost choking on the sound. “Absolutely not.”

“I figured, but I had to ask.”

The kettle whistled, and Ana stood slowly, not drawing her eyes away from the photos until the last second.

While pouring the spice-scented tea into two mugs, Ana sighed. “We never knew what had happened to Darlene. She and Torbjörn were testing an off-road vehicle when there was an explosion. No one was injured, thankfully, but Darlene was gone. No body, no sign of her at all.”

Roadhog took a pristine white mug gently from her hand as she sat down at the table once more. The steam fogged the lenses of his mask briefly before he lifted the lower portion of the leather to be able to take a much-needed drink.

“Jack thought she might have been kidnapped. It happened more than you would think.” Ana paused, bringing a hand to her eyepatch absently. “We monitored her financial records for a year or so after, just out of desperation to know she was all right, but all of her accounts had been emptied a month prior to her disappearance. I began to suspect that she staged it, but Jack and Torbjörn would never hear of it.”

“It makes sense to me now.” Ana held the badge photos of mother and son together with a sad smile. “Jamison looks so much like her. I knew the moment I saw him in news coverage of your little crime spree.”

“You think she was pregnant, and that’s why she left?”

“It fits the time frame, and it’s as good a guess as any we have ever had.” Ana returned the photos to their respective folders and then held her mug with both hands. “Jack always took losses personally, particularly when it came to what happened to the team as a whole. We all grieve in our own ways for the loss of a friend, but Jack... He has trouble letting go. Darlene was very young, and I think he always felt responsible for her.”

Roadhog remained silent, concentrating on steadily drinking from his cup even as his gut twisted at realizing how deep down the rabbit hole this scheme might go.

“I wish she had talked to me, to any of us, but I can understand why she didn’t. There were days when I was pregnant that I thought of leaving this all behind, just running away because I was frightened of what this life would do to a child.” Ana did not seem remiss in her disclosures, like everything it was purposeful. “Sometimes I still wonder if I did the right thing by staying.”

“Too late for regrets now, and your kid turned out pretty good.”

“Very true on both counts.”

They sat there with their tea with memories peering back at them from aging photos and pages of cold, impersonal documentation.

“When was your team planning on bringing all _this_ to Jamison?”

“That is something I wished to discuss with you. Do you think he knows that his mother was a member of Overwatch?”

“No, he talks a lot about everything _at length_ , and this has never come up.”

“Then we may have brought you here for no reason though I can’t speak for whatever justifications Jack has in his head.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“No, I don’t imagine that this is any worse than being in prison.”

While Roadhog and Ana continued their discussion, Junkrat cut a path through the base that was so meandering that it made _Family Circus_ seem straightforward by comparison. When he could not find Roadhog immediately, Junkrat needed something to keep his overactive brain occupied.

_Could go back and get some gear from the lab. No, no, been there, done that today. What about the telly? No, too borin’. Food sounds good, but I don’t fancy havin’ to fill out all the forms._

Living on the base only came with the dietary restrictions of eating what was currently available in their stores, so Junkrat did not have to worry about taking too much. However, Dr. Ziegler had been quite adamant that he and Roadhog keep track of their eating habits as she assessed their fitness for the field.

_Eat a muffin. Tick a box. Eat another muffin. Tick a box. Bloody nuisance._

Still, the rumbling in his gut told him that it might time for a snack.

When Junkrat rounded the corner into the kitchenette, his mood instantly brightened when he saw Roadhog. “Oi, I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

“Get over here.” Roadhog pushed out the chair next to him. He passed the mug of tea into Jamison’s hands once he had taken his seat, sprawled with his knees in two different time zones. “Drink this.”

“Coffee?” Junkrat bounced excitedly at the prospect of a caffeinated beverage.

“It’s tea. The Doc told you to cool it with the coffee.”

Junkrat shrugged with a laugh and then downed the whole cup like a shot. “Doc says a bunch of stuff: ‘Don’t breathe in the dust from those concussion mines.’ ‘Don’t swallow toothpaste.’ ‘Don’t put tinfoil in the microwave.’ Blah, blah blah.”

Roadhog and Ana shared a glance.

With a deep breath, Ana handed Junkrat the file folder she and Roadhog had been examining. “Jamison, I would like for you to look at something.”

Junkrat did not open the folder immediately. He turned to Roadhog with a worried expression. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Roadhog huffed and tapped the folder. “Just look.”

Junkrat’s reluctance was on full display as he hesitantly pulled back part of the folder as if seeing a portion of the information was better than seeing it all at once. His eyes narrowed as the printed page stopped being a jumbled mess and started to be actual words, and then the folder opened fully. Colour drained from Junkrat’s already pale face as he stared in uncharacteristic silence, unmoving.

_Mum..._

Trembling fingers reached up to touch the edge of the photo, and a smile began to tug at the corners of Junkrat’s lips before he shut the folder and handed it back to Ana.

“What kind of game are you playin’ at?” Junkrat demanded, his voice wavering.

Ana maintained her composure as if prepared for this reaction. “Your mother—”

“That ain’t me mum! It can't be.” Junkrat insisted, pushing himself away with the table and pointed an accusatory finger at the folder. “It’s some kind of mistake! It doesn’t even her name right! My mum was Darla Fawkes, not Darlene Fox.”

“So it’s just a coincidence that she looks exactly like her? Like you?” Roadhog boasted that no-nonsense body language that tended to crop up whenever Junkrat’s plans got out-of-hand.

“It might be!” Junkrat knew it sounded ridiculous, but he held firm. “Or a trick!”

“Idiot.”

Ana interjected before the pair could argue further, immediately going for the heart of the issue. “Jamison, why do you not want it to be her? What does it change?”

 _‘Cause if it’s her, I have to think about all the things I can’t remember, all the things from before that are gone._ Junkrat’s thoughts raced as he felt a surge of heat rise into his face.

“Just forget it.” He turned to leave the kitchen as quickly as he could, pointing back in the direction of the folder, “And don’t bring _that_ near me again.”

 Ana picked up her tea, nonplussed by Junkrat’s outburst. “Well, that could have gone better.”

 Resigned that he was going to be expected to fix the situation, Roadhog offered, “Let me talk to him.”

To his credit, Roadhog gave Junkrat some space. More often than not, if left alone, Junkrat’s temper would fizzle out like a wet bottle-rocket, and Roadhog had let him sulk in his room for a few hours before approaching him, knocking on his bedroom room with a metallic _thunk_ as his thumb ring banged against the door.

Surprisingly, Junkrat opened it immediately, though he was pouting. “Took you long enough.”

“Do you always need to show your ass when one of the higher-ups talks to you?” Roadhog countered, glancing around the bedroom, expecting a mess but finding everything clean, as if it had not been lived in at all.

It was not as though they had many possessions to bring with them, and their weapons remained locked in the armory, but something seemed off about the atmosphere of the place.

Junkrat threw himself on his bed, the only part of the room that appeared to be used on a regular basis, and refused to answer.

Roadhog did not know what the best way to broach the subject was that would not be as awkward as it was in the kitchen. “Look, I know that seeing a picture of your mom after all this time might be a shock...”

A tittering giggle escaped Junkrat’s throat. “Oh, please, Mr. One-Man-Apocalypse, please lecture me on expressin’ my feelings!”

“Don’t you want to know what your mom was doing before she got saddled with you? I mean, she worked for Overwatch; that’s like having a secret agent for a parent. Isn’t that something that children fantasize about?”

“Well, I ain’t a kid anymore.”

“Then stop acting like one.” Roadhog sat on the edge of the bed.

“Maybe I just don’t want to know.”

Junkrat turned on his side to face the wall, curling up on himself, but Roadhog grabbed his shoulder and forced him onto his back. “You should get royalties every time someone says, ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ Own up. What gives?”

“When I saw that photo, it made me happy,” Junkrat paused, pushing himself upright with his elbows, “for a second. Then, it was just bad. My memory is shot, mate. I want to remember _before_ , and I can’t, so it’s all _after_. The after’s no good.”

Roadhog mulled over the words. “You don’t have any memories before the blast?”

“Some, little bits and bobs, but nothing feels real.” Junkrat scratched at the back of his scalp where his hair was steadily re-growing. “It’s like a dirty window. Don’t know if that makes sense. When it comes into focus, it’s...” He did not want to say the words; they stung his throat. “I can remember her dyin’ more than I can her being alive.”

When he let his guard down, the thoughts came in a rush like a shadow pulling him down: _Dark, cramped little hovel and a dirty mattress on the floor. Wake up, mum! I’m scared, mum! Wake up, please, please, please, please!_

With a growl, Junkrat swung his prosthetic fist, leaving a significant dent when it connected with the metal bedside table. If it had been his actual hand, he would have broken a few knuckles at least. “Shut up, brain! Stupid, fucking shit!”

After the outburst, Junkrat quieted, laying back down on his side, letting his breathing slow. Roadhog noticed the glazed over look in Junkrat’s eyes, the same look that he always got when he knew he should sleep but could not get his thoughts to leave him alone long enough for rest.

“You want me to stay here?” Roadhog asked, scooting back on the bed until his back was against the wall and making himself comfortable, knowing what the answer would be before he asked.

“Yeah, mate,” came the reply, Junkrat’s voice sounding distant and detached.

As day dragged into late evening and into night, Junkrat drifted in and out of consciousness, trying to find some way to think of anything else than the photograph of his mother happy and smiling. She seemed impossibly young, vibrant, shining. Junkrat had been honest in that he had very few memories of his life before the Omnium explosion. There were snippets he could recall but was never totally convinced that they were honest recollections, that they were not just wishful thinking that his brain had devised to comfort him when loneliness crept in.

He remembered a small collection of bottle caps on a window sill and repeating their colours to himself as he stacked them up and knocked them over. There were flashes of haircuts over a bathroom sink and of running around a tire swing with a towel tucked into his shirt collar like a cape. And there was _her_ , his mother, always with a smile. It should have made him happy to be able to remember her face before everything went to hell, but all it did was hurt.  
  
  
(A Lost Memory: Darla and Little Jamison. Art by Mozg-art.tumblr.com)

   
With Roadhog snoring in deep sleep against the wall with his arms folded over his massive belly, Junkrat felt his chest seize up as he woke when one of these maybe-memories flooded his unconscious brain. It ranked among the most vivid he had experienced. He could remember a tiny kitchen and watching his mother preparing food. She cut the crust off a peanut butter and banana sandwich and placed the precise little triangles of sandwich in one plastic baggie and the crusts in another before packing them into a bright blue lunchbox along with an apple and other assorted snacks.

 _I liked the crusts, just not on the sandwich... Why was that? When was the last time I even had a bloomin’ banana?_ The words filtered through Junkrat’s mind along with so many other questions. _Was blue my favourite colour? Not even sure what’s me favourite colour now._

“Ready for your first day of school, Snotface?” his mother had asked after handing him the lunchbox.

“Yeah!” The reply came from a tiny, excited voice that seemed hazy and far away.

_Was that what I sounded like?_

His mother placed a kiss to his forehead, and it was warm and wonderful. “I’m so proud of you, Jamison.”

Junkrat woke up with a start. His mouth had gone dry, and he stared into the darkened room feeling lost. The more he tried to convince himself that the memory was not real, the more heat rose into his face and chest. Before Junkrat could stop the surge of anxiety that rippled through his body, he began hyperventilating, pulling in a gasp of air with the desperation of a drowning man. He sat up in bed and pulled himself to his foot with a nearby chair he kept between the bed and the bathroom so that he would not have try to put on his prosthetic in the dead of night.

Hobbling into the bathroom, Junkrat shut the door as quickly and as quietly as possible before taking in another deep breath. His body shook as he leaned against the wall, and he blindly grabbed a towel from the rack and held it to his face as he sobbed to muffle the sound. In the dark, tears ran hot down his face, and he could not stop them. Junkrat hated crying, both how useless it seemed and how weak it made him feel. His skin itched to punch someone or to blow up something, anything just to make the wracking in his chest stop. Destruction was always preferable to crying that did nothing but make his head throb and his eyes ache.

“Bad dream?” Roadhog’s voice broke through the echoes of crying off the bathroom tile. His massive hands held tight to Junkrat’s waist and pulled him close.

Junkrat turned to bury his face in Roadhog’s arm and spoke with such fervor that the words choked him. “I remembered... She was nice, Roadie. Why am I sad about her bein’ so nice?”  

When Junkrat had finally calmed enough to explain what he had dreamed, Roadhog offered, “Sometimes it hurts to remember good things. It’s like it would be better if it was bad, because, if it was, you wouldn’t miss it. You miss your mom because she was a good mom, and you think it’s going to hurt less if you could just forget. You gotta let yourself remember, good and bad.”

Managing a small nod of agreement though his sniffling continued, Junkrat went to wipe his nose on his arm before Roadie stopped him and handed him the towel.

“We can talk to Ana again in the morning if you want.”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”


End file.
